by Ben Rovik
“Unless there are magical Wards built into the Princess’ chambers already.”
“Even if there are, I don’t think these ojing are responding to anything real. See, the disks fluctuate in response to magic. Even when they’re all white, their surfaces are always in motion.”
“I remember.”
“The ojing in there don’t have any movement. They aren’t doing a thing." He exhaled sharply. “I think they’re painted.”
Samanthi narrowed her eyes. “The court sorcerer is hanging painted white disks from the ceiling in there.” Lundin nodded, and she pressed him. “You’re sure that’s what you saw.”
“I got a close look, close as I could.”
“And there’s only one style of ojing out there; the kind we’re used to, that doesn’t start out white.”
“Far as I know.”
“I’m not usually inclined to trust you, but I’ll try to stretch myself in this one case,” Samanthi said, her mind working furiously. “If Ouste is setting up fake ojing, and they’re all white, she wants everyone to think that the only spells in that room are hers.”
“And why would she do that—”
“—unless somebody else is flooding Princess Naomi’s chambers with bad magic as we speak,” she finished his thought. She looked at Lundin. “Princess Naomi isn’t sick, is she?”
Lundin shook his head, his face drawn.
“She’s being murdered.”
Chapter Ten
Braids And Barrels
“He said it was fixed,” Lord Portikal said as two female maids carried the conditioning fan into the Princess’ sleeping chambers.
Lady Ceres cracked her knuckles, unable to stand still. “I hope so,” she growled. “Naomi is on fire. We need that room cooler as soon as possible. And bring more ice chips,” she said to another maid, who curtseyed and swept out of sight into the anteroom.
“Ceres,” Lord Portikal said softly. The powerfully built woman, veteran of ten campaigns under Queen Tess, put her hands on her hips and exhaled heavily. Portikal laced his fingers together and took a step closer to her. “You’re doing well to keep the Princess so comfortable.”
“So comfortable in her final hours, you mean.” Lady Ceres’ piercing gray eyes were full of pain. She shook her head. “Unacceptable.”
Portikal looked down at the floor, mouth twisting as he chose his words carefully. “The Ordeals are taxing, and it would certainly not be the first time that an heir was claimed—”
“The Ordeals aren’t to blame,” she said, her color rising.
“Ceres, it stands to reason that—”
“I’ve been with the Princess for two weeks now, Portikal. I have seen her under great strain, and I have seen her rise above it. For thirteen days, I’ve seen a steady trajectory towards growth; increased strength, increased confidence, a powerful will, and a sense of self any Queen of any nation would envy.”
Portikal raised his hands placatingly. “She’s a child, Lady Ceres. You know what you want to see, but the truth is, Princess Naomi is frail, and always has been. We’ve known this about her from the day the master of physic told Queen Tess that Naomi would never speak a word—”
“She can speak, Portikal, as you well know. And the loudest voice and the strongest heart rarely go together, in any case.”
“In our capacity as members of the Regency Council,” he said, evenly, “we would be remiss in our duty if we did not squarely face that fact that, whatever the cause, the heir to the Throne is at death’s door.”
Ceres clenched her fists, staring helplessly at the closed door to the bedroom. A sweating girl in a thin shift lay in there, struggling for life against an invisible enemy. Ceres wanted nothing but to defend her, but not even the most experienced warrior could fight what she couldn’t see.
After a long silence, Lord Portikal spoke. “We have a choice. Summon the master of physic; possibly save her life; certainly deny her her place in the succession; and set her on the path to banishment.”
“The Throne is her birthright,” Ceres whispered. “She will not yield it.”
“In that case,” he sighed, “we need to consult with Krame and Marchise. The four of us must prepare an address to the citizenry for when… for the eventuality that the worst occurs.”
The fan box whirred into life in the next room. The minor triumph was small comfort to the two Regents. “A hard day,” Portikal said, rubbing his forehead with thick fingers.
“Something has been done to Naomi, my old friend,” Ceres said, shaking her head. “Last night, she was strong, energetic, and eager for the morning’s challenges. Illness does not strike such a child in her own bedroom. Not without foul play.”
“Careful.”
“I will not be careful while evil forces work on her, now of all days,” she hissed. “If she passes, and my dark suspicions are borne out, then the cowards responsible for this dreadful morning will not live to profit from it.”
Lord Portikal set a hand on her shoulder. She looked down at him, and he nodded, once. “From your mouth to the eight Spheres,” he said, his eyes wet.
“How is this possible?” Sir Kelley asked, his voice tinny in Samanthi’s ear. She cupped her hand around the Communicator’s earpiece to muffle any sound leaks, and leaned down towards the telescoping mouth trumpet.
“If we’re right, it’s going to take every interrogator in the Palace Guard weeks to figure out how a plot like this could take shape,” she said in a low voice, trying to keep outwardly calm. They’d set up the Communicator in the corner of the anteroom to give her as much privacy as possible; not that there was any to be had. A knot of Palace Guards, in supremely unhelpful fashion, had stopped not five steps away from her to discuss a fascinating sheaf of paperwork. She pivoted her body away from them, and away from the sight of Lundin scrambling with the first batch of crowd data delivered for Abby’s analysis. There was no way to tell the Guard their suspicions; not yet, given the total lack of meaningful proof. So Samanthi had told Lundin to keep plugging away at their mundane feastday assignments until they could rustle up some evidence. If both techs dropped their assigned duties now, it would draw unwelcome attention, and cracking this theoretical plot open would become even harder.
She shook her head and went on, flicking the Communicator back to transmission mode. “The best we can do is figure out who’s behind this, and how to stop them.” She flicked the switch back to receiving mode to hear the ‘nauts’ responses.
“The poor Princess,” Kelley moaned. “An enemy wizard could be anywhere within fifteen kilometers of the Palace.”
“That’s all of Delia,” Sir Mathias’ growling voice floated into her ears, distantly. He was sharing Kelley’s connection, letting his voice be picked up by the input in the senior tech’s helmet. “Where are we supposed to start?"
“Do you think Ouste is the one casting the spell, Samanthi? Or maybe she cast the spell on Her Royal Highness last night, and what we’re seeing is the result?” Kelley asked.
She clicked her tongue against her teeth, puzzling it out. “She’s not casting now, but maybe she was the culprit last night, Sir Kelley. It seems awfully risky for the court sorcerer to get her hands dirty directly like that, though.”
“Setting up those fake disks sounds more like she’s involved in covering this magic up than making it happen,” Mathias agreed.
“So, we’re back to no suspects.”
“Horace and I had one thought,” Samanthi murmured. “If you were casting a spell on the heir to the Throne, you’d want to be pretty confident it would succeed, right?”
“I’d say so.”
“That probably means that whoever planned this went out of their way to get, well, a piece of the Princess for their dirty wizard to use. Like how the opposition in Verrure stole LaMontina’s blood?”
The two Petronauts hummed in her ear, thinking. Samanthi moved the earpiece farther away, gritting her teeth. She hated this thing sometimes.
&nb
sp; “She won’t have been bled for weeks now,” Sir Kelley mused. “Can’t be treated by a master of physic during the Ordeals, poor child.”
“What sort of piece are we talking about here, Samanthi?” Sir Mathias said. “Fingernails? Bathwater? Excrement? Hair?”
Her eyes drifted as she thought. The anteroom was lined with portraits of people important to the crown. Each of the four regents was represented; there was Ouste, her bald head gleaming; and there was Princess Naomi herself, with that long, shining, fawn-colored hair—
Samanthi gasped.
“Aggh,” the Petronauts said. “Don’t make that noise into the mouthpiece ever again,” Sir Mathias scolded across the airwaves.
“Sir Mathias, you’re a genius,” she said, her low voice picking up speed. “On Day One of the Ordeals, a great big piece of the Princess was chopped off and locked away. Remember?”
“Her hair!” Sir Kelley realized, thinking quickly.
“I have no idea where that hair is kept, or even if they keep it around.”
“I think it goes to the Haberstorm vault,” Mathias said. “They keep mementos from each scion’s Ordeals in there.”
“Sir Mathias, you’re on fire. I’m so full of professional respect I could kiss you.”
“How romantic,” the Petronaut said, a smile in his voice.
Samanthi heard the sound of raised voices and looked across the anteroom. Some gold-spangled clerk with a box of tan punchcards in his hands was berating Lundin. The poor lonely technician was trying to respond civilly while his arms were deep in Abby’s guts, repairing the damn printing mechanism again, no doubt. “Sirs, I need to go. We’ll do what we can on this end, which may or may not be anything.”
“We’ll contact you if we find anything. Look for the incoming call light on the Communicator.”
“Winding down,” Samanthi announced, coiling the earpiece back around its cradle and retracting the mouthpiece. The call light on top of the Communicator went dark. Samanthi sighed, spun on her heel, and went to rescue her junior tech.
“Sir,” Mathias said as they walked, trying to keep his frustration down, “I’m telling you, that’s not our traditional division of duties.”
“You know I hate to correct you, Sir Mathias, but I just can’t believe—” and here Sir Kelley paused to swallow an imaginary grapefruit. Sir Mathias was almost getting used to the tic at this point; which just proves what an insane day this is, he thought. “—that in an interrogatory capacity, I’ve historically played the ‘tough guy’ role.”
“I promise you, there’s a history of it.”
“I should be the ‘nice guy,’ and you should be the ‘tough guy.’ That’s the much more sensible division. Why work against our natural inclinations?”
“Nothing says it’ll even take much interrogating,” Sir Mathias said, unconvincingly. “The steward will probably let us right into the Haberstorm vault. I only brought up the roles in the slim chance he doesn’t.”
“I’m playing the ‘nice guy.’ You’re playing the ‘tough guy.’ There’s an end to it, please.”
“Yes, Sir Kelley,” Mathias said. At least Kelley was giving orders again. Maybe he was feeling better.
The two ‘nauts had begged off their post at the north gate, telling the thick-necked commander of the Palace Guard that an urgent assignment had been broadcast to them directly from Her Royal Highness’ apartments. (Completely true, of course.) The commander hadn’t made much of a fuss, but Mathias and Kelley had both noticed the meaningful look the man had shared with his deputy before agreeing to release them. Typical Petronaut dabblers, the subtext went. Members of a clear hierarchy with specifically defined duties, like the Delian Army and the Palace Guard, tended to look down on the seeming anarchic community of Petronauts, with its independent squads and elected, term-limited Board of Governors. If only those ‘nauts would learn a little discipline, the story went, they’d actually do Delia some good. Ignoring, of course, that Delia’s supremacy on the Anthic Thrust was directly due to Petronaut ingenuity; but it was all a discussion for another day.
The important thing was that Sirs Kelley and Mathias were clomping their way through the castle’s stony passages to the South Wing, where the steward, Volman, was being kept extremely busy preparing to serve and house hundreds of celebrants once the Ordeals were over—assuming, very optimistically, that what happened to the Princess today was something that the citizens of Delia would want to celebrate.
Sir Kelley asked a servant he’d met earlier where they could find Volman, and the freckled young man pointed them towards the larder. The smell of flour and salted meats hung in the air, pregnant with delicious potential, as they edged their way through the door into the darkly wooded room. A tall, thin, white-haired man, wearing a starburst medallion on the end of a long black chain, briefly looked up from his conversation with a pair of cooks as the knights entered, then went back to his discussion.
“That’s got to be the steward,” Sir Kelley whispered. “He seems nice enough.”
Sir Kelley likes a stranger; what a surprise, Mathias thought. He tried to figure out how to open a line of questioning, and found himself tongue-tied. He’d never been the ‘tough guy’ before. Much though he hated to do it given Kelley’s current state, he deferred to his green-eyed colleague. “Can you soften him up first?”
Sir Kelley actually winked at him. Sir Mathias rolled his eyes as the other Petronaut stepped forward. “Excuse me! Good morning, and a happy feastday to you. We’re looking for the honorable Davic Volman?”
“At your service, sirs,” the steward said, absently, making notes on a slate tablet in his hands. His pale eyes flicked up, taking in their faces and the composition of their armor. “The Reconnaissance Squad, if I’m not mistaken? Sir… Kelley, and Sir Mathias?” He named each of them correctly, pointing with a thin rod of chalk.
Kelley applauded. “Bravo! Your reputation doesn’t exaggerate your abilities! We were told, Mister Volman, that your knowledge of the people and the goings-on in this palace was second to none.”
“Yeah,” Sir Mathias said in a tough guy voice, scowling. He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. The other men looked at him; Kelley with a plastered-on smile and Volman with the mildest hint of disdain. He felt a drop of sweat trickle down his back. Why am I the tough guy again? he asked, fighting to keep the grimace on his face.
Volman whispered to the two cooks and they nodded, leaving the room. The old man bowed with easy grace to Kelley. “Your kindness does me too much honor; what you consider praiseworthy I humbly call but doing my duty. Tell, dear gentlemen,” Volman said, holding his slate low by his stomach, “what brings you to the larder? Say the word and I will see you thoroughly provisioned.”
“What a gracious offer, Mister Volman! But we’re not here for food. We came to speak to you.”
“I await your pleasure, sir,” the steward said, inclining his head, “though I grieve to mention that my time is not fully my own, as a great deal of Crown business awaits me yet before mid-day.”
“I’m sure, I’m sure,” Sir Kelley said with a sympathetic face, which was largely spoiled when his mouth flapped open and shut like a beached sea bass. The steward kept admirably poised as the ‘naut went on. “We’ll get right to it, then. Are you responsible for maintaining the Haberstorm Vault, Mister Volman?”
“That responsibility ultimately falls to me, yes.”
“Oh yeah?” Mathias demanded for lack of anything better to do, jutting his chin out.
Volman looked back at him, his eyes narrowing. “Yes,” he said slowly, giving each letter its own syllable.
Sir Kelley nodded. “That’s where material from the Ordeals is stored, right? Mementos from the various heirs over the years?”
“Quite correct,” Volman said, lines of impatience on his weathered face.
“Is that where the Princess’ hair was taken after being shorn off last week?”
“Indeed it was,” the
steward said. “I took the braid to the vault myself.”
“And has anyone else been down to the vault since then?”
“On multiple occasions. The Haberstorm heraldry and many other ceremonial pieces are stored therein. If it is of interest to you in your leisure, sirs,” Volman said, drawing himself up formally, “one of my vault chiefs will supply you with the record of individuals who have entered or exited the vault during the period of the Ordeals, which I hope may satisfy your curiosity on the matter.”
“Is there any way we could see the vault for ourselves?”
“Regrettably, outside of vetted palace staff, no one may enter the vault without signed authorization from the Regency Council. Were it not a feastday, Sir Kelley, I’m sure they would be amenable to your request; alas, securing the proper paperwork today will not be possible.” He looked from one Petronaut to the other. “If there is nothing further…?” Volman asked, waiting to be dismissed.
Kelley shot a look back to Sir Mathias. The big junior ‘naut shrugged imperceptibly, an edge of desperation in his still-snarling face. Sir Kelley turned back to Volman with a small smile, taking a step closer. “You’ve been very helpful, Mister Volman. Just one more question, and we’ll leave you be. As far as you know, has anyone accessed Princess Naomi’s braid since it was locked away?”
“No, sir,” Volman said, frowning, with a calm shake of his head. The notion had obviously never even occurred to him. Sir Kelley looked back at Mathias, his eyes giving an encouraging signal. If there was going to be a tough guy in this interrogation at all, it was now or never.
Sir Mathias cleared his throat. “Listen, Volman,” he growled. He began a slow swagger towards the steward, tilting his head to avoid a low-hanging ham. “Let’s cut the malarkey. ‘Oh, here’s the record of who went into the vault!’ ‘Oh, the Regents won’t sign the paperwork!’ ‘Oh, I’m sure nobody’s touched the braid!’” The huge man put on a small, insulting voice that sounded nothing like Volman. He was awash with sweat inside his armor as nonsense kept pouring from his mouth.